


I Need You

by livedifferently



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst and Porn, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Porn, PornWithPlot, Smut, sherlocktop, topSherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:09:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29534538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livedifferently/pseuds/livedifferently
Summary: Sherlock leans down, lips centimeters away from John's. "John," he groans hesitantly before leaning down, slowly capturing John's lips with his own.In a world where Mary was not shot, John finds himself miserable. One night he has enough and goes to 221B Baker Street in hopes that Sherlock can give him relief.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 1
Kudos: 51





	I Need You

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I am Bec! I hope you enjoy the story, please leave Kudos or comments if you enjoy :)

He couldn't remember the last time he had seen a dead body. Ever since he and Mary had settled down in the suburbs with Rosie, John was forced to pursue a more professional doctoral job and found himself occupied from seven o'clock in the morning until nine o'clock at night.

Every day was the same: John woke up, took a shower, made breakfast, kissed Rosie and Mary goodbye, worked until six pm, and then came home, ate dinner, did the paperwork for his patients, and went to bed.

It had been over a year since the last time he had sprinted down the streets of London with his best friend, Sherlock Holmes. It had been months since he had last saved a life or cracked the case for a national emergency. He was now stuck in an office for hours on end, six days out of the week. Four white walls, the constant smell of hand sanitizer and paper surrounded him at all times, closing in on him.

The crazed, curly-haired best friend was replaced with middle-aged women complaining about their scratchy throats. He spent his days doing strep tests, attempting to not offend anyone by asking questions regarding their weight, and writing prescriptions. 

Never in his life did John think he would end up like this - like his father. A disgruntled man living in a big house with a white picket fence. Working all day and coming home exhausted, barely there for his own child, and always frustrated with his nagging wife.

He saw Sherlock every once in a while, but not half as much as he used to. After John and Mary worked their marriage out and had Rosie, John began to turn Sherlock down more and more often as he invited John to cases and John adapted to his new schedule. By now, Sherlock had quit asking and would just come over for dinner a few times a month. 

Their camaraderie was diminished as Mary demanded to be present every time the friends united. They barely spoke outside of dinners and at dinner, Mary would simply talk about Rosie's new growth and Sherlock would congratulate them for their life, then leave with dessert to go. 

Sherlock now saw himself as the lonely uncle with who John used to spend time before he met his actual soulmate. Sherlock felt like he was just a shove-in, someone to be there for John until John actually settled. Now that John was, in fact, settled, Sherlock realized that he was not needed. If John didn't want him, who would? Sherlock spent his time playing his violin, eating microwaveable meals, and following Greg Lestrade to every case as policemen and detectives threw hateful words at him. John was no longer there to say something. 

Obviously, John was unaware of Sherlock's feelings and wellbeing as that was not something Sherlock would discuss with someone he didn't know well - and at the moment, they did not know each other well.

John missed him.

This is what races through the shorter man's mind as he sits in his car, staring out of his windshield at the brick wall of his office that sat in front of his car. His shift was over, another day full of nothing important. His hands tighten around his wheel and he takes a deep breath, not knowing what to do. Go home? Go drinking? Drive far, far away and never return? Go see Sherlock?

No, he couldn't see Sherlock. They didn't work like that anymore. 

But fuck, John would do anything to go to the tiny apartment and to type up a blog while drinking a cup of tea, shoulders brushing with the six-foot detective. He would do anything to look up at Sherlock from his screen to see Sherlock staring at him as if he were the only person on earth. He would give everything up to follow the dramatically billowing coat around the city as they searched for a killer.

John didn't mean to meet Mary, she just so happened to be there when he was grieving. He proposed when he thought he had no other chance at life, but then Sherlock came back. John would have left Mary right then and there had she not been pregnant. But she was. Now he has Rosie, his daughter. His daughter whose mother was a lying spy who murdered hundreds of people. 

John didn't mean for any of this to happen. 

He is ripped from his thoughts as his phone rings, mocking the feeling of being splashed with bitterly cold water.

"Hello?"

"Where are you?" It was Mary.

"I'm on my way home from work," he says exasperatingly, turning the ignition and putting his car into reverse.

"Another busy day? It's thirty minutes past close."

"Yeah, yeah," John lies. "It was packed."

The truth was, John was actually out ten minutes earlier than usual. He just sat in the parking lot thinking while his coworkers left. He was the only car left.

"Well, I need you to stop by the store," Mary demands. "We are out of milk."

John exhales. "Could you just stop by the neighborhood market? I still have an hour drive home and I've been working all week -"

"Christ, John. It's just a bloody gallon of milk."

John falls silent. Then, "yeah. Yeah, I'll grab some."

He is met with the familiar beep of her hanging up the phone on him and defeatedly tosses his phone into the passenger seat as he starts home.

Just another day in paradise.

\------------------------------------

"Where were you?" the blonde woman demands as John walks in, keys still in the door and shopping bags on his wrists. 

"I was at the store, Mary."

"It's eight at night. The sun has gone down, Rosie is already asleep. Were you with the woman? The woman you were texting?"

John laughs sarcastically, setting the paper bags on the kitchen table. "The woman who I met on the bus? A year ago? The woman who I texted for maybe three weeks? Yeah, no. I was at the store because my wife demanded it of me after I spent all day in the bloody doctor's office, making money to support our family."

"How am I supposed to believe that?"

"The same way I believed you weren't a psychopathic liar who murdered people for a living the first two years of our relationship." 

Silence fell over the two, neither willing to break first. Until...

"I'm going to go check on Rosie."

John left the room and stormed upstairs, walking into the room of his daughter. The toddler was asleep in her bed, her sweaty blonde curls sticking to her forehead and cheeks flushed red from the heat of her blankets. 

He bent down, kissing her lightly on the head and stroking her shoulder with his calloused hands. "What do I do, Rosie?" he asks.

Knowing she was asleep, he sits on the floor and begins to rub her back, continuing his talking. 

"I am so stressed, I just want to forget everything. For a night, for a lifetime. I can't stay here tonight, RosieRosie. If I stay I will lose my mind, and you don't deserve that. You don't deserve a grumpy father. You don't deserve to never see me. I want to be there with you, to watch you as you learn more words. I want to be at every sports game and school activity. But right now, I feel so suffocated. I feel like I'm drowning and will never be able to come up for water."

John looks down at her, unsurprised as she is still asleep, retaining nothing of his words. 

John's eyes float around the room and land on the grandfather clock in the corner of Rosie's room. It was a gift from Sherlock. 

Sherlock.

John stands with a start, giving Rosie a quick kiss on the head.

He lightly jogs down the stairs, goes to the kitchen where Mary is seated, grabs his car keys, and begins for the front door.

"Where are you going?" Mary demands.

"Out." John states, the door swinging shut behind him.

\------------------------------------

John had left his cellphone at the house and he was okay with that. He had no distractions, no Mary, to think about. 

It was a long drive from the suburbs to downtown London. After a bit of thinking, and deciding whether to go with his heart or not, the doctor found himself parking on Baker Street. 

It was one in the morning, as the digital clock in his car shined in the darkness. Sherlock might be asleep. If he were, John would just crash in his old bedroom. Mrs. Hudson said that she refused to rent it out to anyone else.

His car door closes with a loud thud, the only sound on the street. The street lights reveal a very empty Baker Street, extremely serene.

John didn't know what he was doing. 

Why was he here? Why was he at Sherlock's? He hadn't physically been in the flat in months. He and Sherlock no longer texted, didn't call. He knew nothing about what the detective was dealing with these days... so why, when he needed comfort, did he find himself here? Why not a bar? Why not in the bed of some random woman?

John is confused with his own self as his heart walks him to the door of 221B, his mind following in suit. 

Instinctively, like he did this every day (which he supposes... he did once upon a time), John lifted his keys to the lock and walked right into the foyer of the building. As quietly as he can, he shuts the door behind him and starts for the stairs. 

The familiar sound of the violin plays faintly from the living room. Before John opened the door, he could already see the detective in his robe, violin perched on his shoulder, a warm cup of tea sitting on a disheveled stack of papers nearby. He suspected that Sherlock had seen him pull up to the apartment, as Sherlock sees everything. John inserted his key into the keyhole and walked into his old flat.

Just as he thought, John is met with the silhouette of Sherlock Holmes. With his back to the front door, the tall man is dressed in a cream-colored silk robe, facing his bookshelf. The contrast of the light cream color against the dark wood and pitch-black hair was stunning to John. The fire crackled in the fireplace and unsurprisingly, the television was on lightly in the background playing Sherlock's favorite reality, "Finding my Father".

As if John had never left, books were everywhere. There were stacks on stacks of papers, files, and newspapers. He peeks into the kitchen and a light smile comes across his mouth as he sees the familiar scene of test tubes and beakers, a probable dangerous substance sitting over the burner, and safety goggles were lazily thrown to the side. Everything was the same... 

Everything except for the fact that John was no longer there.

The whole scene is strikingly comforting to John. The warmth, the familiarity, the constancy, the small size and hint of chaos. John feels... right. He feels at home. 

As if a wave crashed over him, John takes a deep breath. He can breathe here.

The scent of paper, ink, tea, fire, and Sherlock's cologne surround John like a hug.

This all happens in an instant and Sherlock turns around, startled by the sound of his apartment door shutting.

"John."

Sherlock looks the doctor up and down and immediately feels the weight of the world John carries on his shoulders. John's posture had drastically worsened since Sherlock had last seen him, proof that John spent most of his time sitting down. This means more work hours at the office.

John's plain white button-down and black pants also strike Sherlock as more professional, also alluding to the fact that John is spending more time at the office. His hair and eyebrows were bushy, proof of stress. Stress that caused John to rub his temples and brush his hair back often. John was much thinner than he used to be when he lived with Sherlock. Sherlock used to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner with the doctor. 

The loss of weight alludes to the idea that someone was not ensuring that John was eating - he was eating by himself more often and didn't enjoy the lonely feeling, so just stopped eating as a whole. John's wrists were hinted red as if he were carrying grocery bags somewhere. Obviously not somewhere important, because those marks would be gone if he had taken the additional time to put the groceries away. However, he didn't. He got groceries, sat them down, and then left. An argument. 

His phone was not anywhere on him and his face bled with unhappiness. 

Mary. John had got in a fight with Mary.

"Stop deducing me," John says.

"Hmm?" Sherlock looks up, meeting John's eyes. "Oh. Sorry."

He walks past John, setting his violin on his desk as he goes to the door, locking it behind his friend.

"Were you expecting me?"

"No, why would I have been expecting you?" Sherlocks walks past John again, heading for the kitchen. "Tea?"

John chuckles, a bit confused. "You always know when someone is coming. You know everything. Didn't you hear my car door close?"

"I heard the door, but I didn't think it was you. You haven't been by in months, why would you be over on a Thursday night at 1:16 in the morning?"

John was a bit stung by Sherlock's blunt wording. It stung, but it was true. And that's why it stung. "I'm sorry about that."

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asks, pouring tea from the kettle into a styrofoam cup. John's mug was no longer there.

"I just wanted to say hello," John says."But I should be heading out. Sorry for the random drop-in, Sherlock."

The doctor starts for the door, but the detective had longer legs and a wider stride. As John's hand touches the door, Sherlock's large hand grasps the bicep of John, aggressively turning the shorter man around.

Unexpectedly close in contact, John's face flushes at the dominant touch of Sherlock's grasp and looks up into the gray eyes of the detective. 

"John." Sherlock states. 

Surprisingly to them both, John suddenly wraps his arms around the taller man. His face falls against the soft gray t-shirt Sherlock wears and he closes his eyes, inhaling.

Not knowing what exactly to do, Sherlock slowly copies John and hugs him back, his long arms snaking around the shorter doctor.

They stand there for what could have been five seconds or five hours.

John's arms tighten around the detective. The scent of aftershave and cologne mixed with hot tea, a hint of cigarettes that was attempted to be covered with mint surrounds him. The feeling of being held is addicting and the soft material that is of Sherlock makes John want to melt into the taller man.

He lifts his head up, tucking his forehead into Sherlock's neck and collarbone. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so safe and so secure.

Sherlock freezes as he feels John's lips meet the skin of his pale neck. Assuming John was just adjusting, his breath hitches when John kisses his neck again. And again. And again. The same area of the left side of his neck was being slowly kissed by the shorter man and Sherlock stood there, his eyes fluttering shut.

John's grasp around Sherlock shifts as he slowly snaked his right hand that was wrapped around the detective's waist up to his jawline. Sherlock instinctively leans into the warmth of John's hand, giving John more access to his long neck.

John's calloused thumb rubs Sherlock's cheek slowly, lovingly, as John's kisses get higher on Sherlock's neck. His left arm that was still wrapped around Sherlock snakes in between them as he affectionately lays a hand on Sherlock's lower stomach. He slowly pushes Sherlock's back against the door and continues with his silent neck kissing and caressing.

John's kisses got higher and higher, stopping at Sherlock's chin.

"Sherlock," John whispers, grabbing the back of his head and pulling him forward, foreheads touching.

Sherlock leans down, lips centimeters away from John's. "John," he moans hesitantly before leaning down, slowly capturing John's lips with his own. 

One simple slow kiss was all that happened before they pulled away, foreheads touching and eyes closed. Sherlock's hands grasped John's hips and he buried his head in the crook of John's neck, running his hands up and down John's sides slowly but determined. 

"Sherlock," John groaned at the assertive grasp of the detective.

Sherlock reacted to the way John said his name and reactively rolled his hips onto John's, both of the feeling the hardness of the other for the first time.

"Christ," John mutters, looking down at Sherlock's trousers, the outline of his member apparent.

Sherlock looks down as well as John slowly takes his hand and grasps Sherlock through the fabric of his pants.

"John," Sherlock groans, his hips instinctively bucking and pressing into John's hand.

Sherlock's hand draws John's attention as he lays a hand on John's face, pulling him in for another kiss.

The lips collided together, slow and passionate. 

John surprised himself as, before completely thinking it though, grabs a fistful of Sherlock's t-shirt and pulls the detective closer to him. Before Sherlock could adapt to John's dominance, John's tongue sneaks its way into Sherlock's mouth. 

Sherlock groans at the touch and rubs his fingertips up the chest of the doctor, shedding the jacket John was wearing and mimicking the action of John's tongue, loving the contact. Needing more of it.

The tall detective aggressively begins to unbutton the shirt John was wearing, breaking the kiss to kiss down John's neck and over everything the buttons exposed, one by one until the shirt was completely gone. When he got to the line of John's pants, Sherlock hesitated, not knowing what they were doing or what it meant or how far to go. He peered up through his eyelashes and saw John looking down at him, biting his bottom lip. John's hand dropped to the back of Sherlock's head, fingers snaking through the black curls.

John wanted this.

Sherlock kept the eye contact with John as he leaned his face into John's package. Slowly, he opened his mouth and showed the entire length of his tongue before leaning forward, licking up John's length through his black pants.

John moaned, his fingers tightening around Sherlock's hair. 

Satisfied, Sherlock stands up.

"You're a dickhead for teasing me like that," John says with a slight smile, hand rubbing up and down Sherlock's chest.

"John, what are we doing? What is this?" Sherlock whispers, trying not to kiss John's swollen lips or look down at the girthy cock connected to the soldier. 

"Sherlock, please. I need this. I need you," John whispers, his hand tightening around Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock saw the stress, the worry, the depression all over John. And what they had done so far felt bloody great. And John needed him.

"I don't want to be used," Sherlock whispers.

John freezes, looking up into the distant eyes of his best friend. "I would never do that. I've always wanted you. I've always wanted you... like this. If you don't want to, we can stop."

The sincerity and the desperation in John's voice, mixed with his lustful eyes was all too much for the detective. They would talk after, but right now they needed to release their stress and Sherlock had never wanted anyone as badly as he wanted John. 

"I don't want to stop," Sherlock grumbles, leaning into John's neck and immediately sucking, leaving a dark purple bruise after the other.

"Fuck Sherlock," John says, running his palms under Sherlock's shirt. "Claim me. I want everyone to know that I'm yours."

Sherlock moaned deeply into John's ear, making John grind against Sherlock's length.

Sherlock steps away from John, taking the shirtless doctor's hand in his own and leading him to his bedroom.

Sherlock's sheets were black and silky, calling out to John. 

Gently but assertively, Sherlock pushes John back onto the bed, shedding his own robe while doing so. Falling in between John's legs, the two kiss on the bed like young teenagers making out. John's legs wrapped around Sherlock's as they grind their members together while their lips met. 

John needily reaches over Sherlock's back and strips him from the blue shirt, their two bare chests rubbing against each other, hands exploring new territory, the kisses getting messy and needy as their hips beat against the other. 

John aggressively flips him and Sherlock over, now on top. "Sherlock, can I take your pants off?"

Sherlock groans, "yes, John. Please."

John stands and slowly pulls down Sherlock's sweatpants, his tight back underwear revealed. Sherlock sits up and unbuttons John's trousers, John shaking them off of his ankles, left in tight gray underwear. 

At the sight of the two hard cocks covered by one layer of fabric, Sherlock pulls John back on top of him and the men groan as they once again meet lips. Sherlock is getting to be more aggressive as he enters his tongue into John's mouth, his hand grasping John's length and stroking it as they kiss.

John breaks the kiss, letting out a yell at this contact. "FUCK, Sherlock," he says, burying his face into Sherlock's chest as he thrusts into the large-sized hand of the detective.

"John," Sherlock whispers, kissing him. "I want to fuck you."

John moans, thrusting. "What's stopping you?"

At the willingness of his best friend, Sherlock maneuvers them in a way that they face each other, John on his back and Sherlock hovering above. They have discarded their underwear, both men starving for a release.

From his nightstand, Sherlock pulls out a bottle of lubricant and slowly strokes his cock, the slick substance also being rubbed on John's hole.

John looks up at Sherlock as Sherlock hooks his hands under John's knees, pinning them up toward the shorter man's chin. 

"Are you okay with this?" Sherlock asks, his voice deep and eyes dark.

"Yes, Sherlock. Please," John whispers. 

Sherlock leans forward, kisses John lightly on the forehead and lips, then rests his forehead on the strong shoulder as his hips move forward and the tip of him reaches John's entrance. Sherlock's arms rest at either side of John's head and John grunts, his eyes squinting together and arms wrapping around Sherlock's waist at the pressure. Sherlock then presses in, half of his length entering the smaller man.

John moans, his body stretching to fit the detective. "Christ," he says. This was his first time with a man and he is near to seeing stars as Sherlock lifts his head and places a hand on his cheek, kissing his lips soft and determined. Through the kiss, John responds, reassuring the detective.

With that, Sherlock presses his hips forward and John takes in all of his inches, feeling Sherlock's sack fall against him.

John is unable to speak, the sensation all too much for him to handle. All he can do is cling to Sherlock as he craves more. 

Sherlock rears back and comes in again, beginning a slow pattern of thrusting. 

"John," Sherlock grumbles. "You feel amazing."

John looks up in the moonlight at the man above him, the big hands protecting him, the lustful gray eyes wanting him.

This is exactly what John needed and exactly what John wanted.

Thrusting in again with a guttural moan, Sherlock stretches John and goes in and out, in and out, in and out. The veins on his neck bulge and he reaches down for John's cock, stroking it.

"Fuck, Sherlock," John whispers, his head throwing back. 

The vision of John's head being thrown back, the sensation that is of pumping into John, all makes Sherlock more needy and more eager. He aggressively begins to beat harder into John, John unable to form words.

"UH, uh, uh, Sherlock. Sherlock, FUCK, Sherlock. More, har - fuck. Harder, Sherlock." John pants, eyes rolling in the back of his head. 

With hearing the word more, Sherlock pulls out completely. Flipping John on his front and raising his ass in the air, Sherlock's long body shadows over John's back as his pale, strong arms grab onto the headboard of his bed.

With the leverage of the headboard, Sherlock pounds back into John, the bed squeaking and shaking at every thrust. Sherlock has left no room for mercy and rears his hips into the shorter man, his knuckles on the headboard going white. 

John screams with the new pressure and speed, unable to speak. "UHHHHHHHHHHM, MMMMMMMMMM!" He shouts, Sherlock only getting faster.

Sherlock lets go of the headboard and grabs on to John's hips, banging into him. The slap of his balls on John's skin echos through the room and John is almost shaking with anticipation. 

Sherlock moans and moans, his deep voice making John's own cock tremble with need. 

"I'm going to cum, John," he says, reaching under the doctor and encouraging John to stroke his own. "Cum with me. Cum with me John."

Slap, slap, slap, slap. Sherlock thrusts inside

"Come on, John. Fuck. FUck. FUCK, John," Sherlock shouts, his head rearing back.

John's hands slide up and down his own length eagerly. 

Sherlock leans forward, pounding into the smaller man, and kisses John's shoulder. The intimacy made him pound faster as he heard John's moaning and begging from underneath him. 

"What do you want, John?" Sherlock asks, grabbing John's balls and making John scream louder. 

"YOU, FUCK. FUUUUCK. Uh UH UH Sherlock, FUCK SHERLOCK," John screams.

"Christ, John. John. JOHN. JOHN!" Sherlock shouts as well as with one final thrust, he shoves into John's small hole and ejaculates his entire seed into John as John sprays his own chest with his hand. 

The moaning from both men fill the room, Sherlock gently kissing everywhere on John he could contact. 

After both men came, Sherlock continued to thrust slowly, not yet wanting to let John go.

When John and Sherlock both rode out their orgasms, John laid on his back, the weight of the world off of his shoulders. He didn't have a worry or a care in the world. 

Sherlock laid on top of him, burying his face into the comfort of John's neck.

"John, I missed you," Sherlock whispers. "I don't know if I will be able to handle it if you leave after this."

"No, Sherlock. I'm not leaving after this. I'm not leaving at all."

The shorter man wraps his arms tightly around the curly-haired man as Sherlock falls asleep.

This is what he needed.  
This is what he would always need, and he didn't plan on leaving.

**Author's Note:**

> I have an angstier story on my profile if you want to check that out!


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